


call me (a hooker) maybe

by Liu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry's confused, Canon Age Difference, Comfort, Coming Out, First Kiss, M/M, and needs help, implied prostitution, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8279467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: Barry decides to solve his problem by calling a shady phone number.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for omg-elledubs-things on tumblr who requested a prostitution AU for coldflash. Me being me, I changed that a bit XD
> 
> (Age difference is canon in this, meaning Barry's 22 in this and Len's 39.)

Barry’s hands are trembling so bad he has to re-dial the number three times before he finally gets it right. It feels like the ringing goes on forever, and Barry is wavering between hanging on and hanging _up_ when someone finally answers.

“Yes?”

It’s a male voice, indescribable due to the horrible reception, and Barry really should have expected a guy, but for some reason, he didn’t; he didn’t expect much of anything, really, and he should have thought this through, but now it’s too late-

“Who’s this?” the man sounds annoyed now, and Barry forces himself to take a deep breath, collect every stray bit of willpower he’s ever had, and actually speak.

“I- hi, I’m- my name’s-“

“Get to the point,” the man snaps and Barry feels blood drain from his face. Of course… of course no names, this is probably illegal, oh God, Joe would kick his ass if he knew what Barry was doing, but… the thing is, Barry can’t back out.

He has to know. Once and for all, he needs to be sure of all the things that have been lurking at the back of his mind and if this is the way to do it, then he will.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into the phone, and he swears he hears a sigh, even though it could technically be static.

“What do you want?”

Barry’s glad that the guy on the other end of the line can’t see him, can’t see the burning blush and the grimaces – it’s hard to find the words, and Barry thinks that maybe he should have rehearsed this before dialing, but it’s too late now and he has to speak.

“I need a man,” he blurts, and that sounds way too desperate even though technically it’s pretty accurate, and Barry wants to shoot himself right there, but he cringes and forces himself not to hang up in horror.

There’s silence on the other end of the line. It’s the longest five seconds of Barry’s life.

“What for?” the guy asks in the end, and Barry bites his lip, considering the pros and cons of telling the truth. ‘I want to find out whether I’m actually bi’ sounds pathetic even in his head, so Barry finds himself mumbling:

“Just the usual stuff. Nothing… um. Nothing too weird?”

That can’t be so bad, right? What could the usual be – a handjob? He could deal with that… right? Barry ignores the fluttering in his stomach that feels both like excitement and nausea, and tells himself that he’s the client here, he can always say ‘no’ or ‘stop’ and the guy won’t feel bad because it’s his job to do what Barry says… isn’t it? Barry is prepared to include a big tip of course, well, big for his meager forensics-student standards, but the truth is, he has no idea what the flat rate for exploration of one’s sexuality is.

“The usual, huh,” the man on the other end of the line says, and something about his tone feels like he’s making fun of Barry. It makes hanging up sound like a valid option again, but then, he continues. “And what would your preferences be?”

Now that’s a question Barry’s not prepared for – his requirement at this point is ‘male’, and it doesn’t feel right to think about eye color or height, so he focuses on the one thing that he actually needs.

“Experience,” he mutters, feeling his cheeks go red again. He needs someone who knows what he’s doing, because Barry doesn’t have the first clue, and if it shows through the call… well, it’s not like it’s not _true._

There’s more silence, for a moment, and then the guy’s asking for an address. Barry rattles off the street and the number before he realizes it’s an awful idea to give his real address, _Joe_ ’s address, to a stranger over the phone, on a shady line supposed to deal in _humans_. But he’s down the rabbit hole now, he can’t take it back, so he hangs up and spends the next half hour fidgeting, looking at his phone to realize only two more minutes have passed, and trying to beat his high score in various games, which he fails at because his focus and his coordination are shot to hell.

Twenty-seven minutes in, Barry decides that maybe he should brush his teeth, so he does, and then he wonders if he should take a shower, but that feels like assuming this will go further than kissing and maybe handjobs, and that makes his stomach twist again. No showers, then. He texts Iris, mostly to make sure that she’s still at Grandma West’s, along with Joe, meaning that neither of them will find Barry hooking up with a random guy he ordered from a shady business with no real name.

Thirty-six minutes in, after Barry has practically worn a hole in the floor with his frantic shuffling, the doorbell rings and Barry’s throat goes dry. He considers not answering, hiding out in the kitchen and waiting for the guy to go away, but then, he feels like that would be rude, so he walks to the front door and opens it just enough to peek outside.

The man doesn’t really look like anything Barry might’ve been expecting. He’s tall and broad-shouldered but not overly muscular, and there’s silver in his close-cropped hair that gives Barry a pause – but he doesn’t look _old_ , not really, not with those intense eyes and that mischievous smirk.

“You’re the one who ordered the usual with a side of experience?” the guy asks, with a slight hint of amusement and irony in his voice. Barry can’t seem to find his words; he nods and forces his body to move in order to invite the man in. He slips into the house and looks around curiously while Barry closes the door, and then there’s just the two of them, the house eerily silent all of a sudden. Barry wishes he would’ve thought of putting some music on, and then wonders if that would be creepy, and what kind of entertainment should be offered to a… well, a sex worker.  
  
“Uh… hi. I’m Barry,” he tries common courtesy, which earns him a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

“Hello, Barry. You can call me Len.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

Barry feels about ten years old for asking, but he really doesn’t have anything better: he should have rehearsed this but he didn’t, and now he’s stuck with an internal monologue along the lines of ‘stupid, stupid, _stupid_ ’ all the way to the kitchen. The guy, Len, follows him without a word and the hairs at the back of Barry’s neck rise to attention. It’s not exactly fear, and it’s not pure excitement either: more like an overflow of nervous energy that wants to manifest in the worst ways, such as shaky hands and sweaty palms.

Of _course_ there’s nothing but orange juice in the fridge – Barry mentally curses again and twists around to offer an apology, but suddenly Len’s too damn close, the light from the fridge reflecting in his eyes as he steps well into Barry’s personal space. His fingers, long and bony and oddly elegant, curl around Barry’s elbow and pull him closer, against the warm, solid chest concealed in a simple black sweater.

Barry closes his eyes instinctively – and that’s why it feels kind of awkward when no kiss comes, and he hears the fridge door close behind him.

“Talk,” Len says, in a soft tone that nearly sounds gentle, and Barry’s gut twists again.

“What…?”

He’s tugged to the small kitchen table and pushed down to sit; Len grabs the other chair and settles his elbows on his knees, knuckles almost brushing Barry’s thigh.

“Kid, you look about eighteen-“

“Twenty-two,” Barry mutters defiantly, because he feels like it matters. It probably doesn’t, because Len shrugs and continues seamlessly, as if Barry hasn’t said a word.

“-and you’re calling shady numbers to order a man with experience… that sounds like you need to talk.”

“I don’t,” Barry grumbles, a knee-jerk reaction and also the truth. He really, _really_ doesn’t need to talk, because if his problem could’ve been resolved by _talking_ , he wouldn’t have needed to take drastic measures like ordering a prostitute to kiss him. “If you don’t want to do this, I get it, you can go, I mean, I can just, I don’t know, find someone else-“

“Barry.” Len’s hand lands on his knee, covers the knobby bone and seeps warmth through the rough fabric of the jeans. Barry stares at it, throat dry, and tries to analyze how he’s feeling, in case Len will really tell him that he’s leaving. Maybe that will be enough to sort through the mess in his head. “You haven’t even told me what it is that you want from me.”

Barry’s cheeks burn and he feels way too young, way out of his depth, but he takes a deep breath and tries to put those unnamed things into words.

“A… kiss?”

It sounds so simple, just one short word, but Barry knows it won’t be enough when the fingers on his knee tighten a little, as if they’re trying to coax more out of Barry, an answer that actually makes sense.

“Could’ve gone down an easier path,” Len smirks a little, but then his expression turns serious. “Or maybe not. What is it? Parents? Church?”

Barry blinks at that: “No, I… uh, I think Joe would be okay with it? With me being… not straight.” It sounds strange to say that out loud – he never really has, not to Iris, not to any of his other friends, not even to himself, in the privacy of his room. “Joe’s like my dad, my foster dad?” he clarifies and nearly startles at the gathering clouds in Len’s eyes. The storm passes in a second, leaving behind a softer expression, almost gentle, so unlike the previous smirks.

It just comes pouring out of Barry then, a string of words that hardly make sense. Breathless and rushed, he squeezes his eyes shut and lets it all out, everything about looking at boys and never being sure, about Iris and how he thought he wasn’t until he went to college and then he started thinking that maybe, he was. Not wanting to be a douchebag who uses another person for an experiment but still wanting, _needing_ to know for sure, being terrified of the answer either way, even though he’s always been taught that people should be free to love whoever they wanted. Confusion and uncertainty, anxiety and wonder and imagination running a little too wild. The fear of not being good enough, _hot_ enough, interesting enough, of being called creepy or pathetic, because at this point he should _know_ , shouldn’t he?

“I know it’s stupid,” he sighs and rubs at his prickling eyes with the heel of his hand. “There are people out there who have to hide, who don’t have anyone to talk to, who would actually be in real danger, and here I am being a total loser who’s just scared for no good reason.”

Self-deprecating humor usually works, but now it just makes Barry feel hollow and stupid and useless. Len’s hand disappears from his knee for a second, and then the long fingers slide along Barry’s jaw, cupping his cheek until Barry’s forced to look, right into those icy-blue eyes.

“Took me way longer to figure things out,” Len says softly, with a surprising amount of understanding in his voice, and such kindness in his eyes that Barry almost, _almost_ smiles. “I was thirty before I made peace with myself. Sometimes it takes longer; doesn’t mean you gotta rush it. Do what feels right for _you_.”

“That’s kinda why you’re here,” Barry chuckles, or tries to, at least, a failed attempt at lightening the mood that he’s weighed down with his feelings.

“Feels right to phone-order your first kiss?” Len teases, and Barry laughs in earnest, short and choked and a little breathless, but it’s a laugh nonetheless and that’s a step in the right direction, he thinks.

“Not my _first_ first,” he shrugs, just a little offended. “I _have_ kissed girls before, you know.”

Len gives him a skeptical look and Barry wants to protest, but then, Len’s getting up and the scrape of his chair against the tiled floor is way too loud in the otherwise tranquil house. He looks down and Barry thinks he’s going to leave now, walk out and leave Barry without his answers- but Len extends his hand in an invitation and when Barry takes it, he’s pulled to his feet by a surprisingly strong arm. It kicks up a flutter in Barry’s stomach, but he doesn’t get much time to analyze it properly. Len cups the side of his neck and his hand is huge and warm and _good_ , and Barry leans into the touch, just a little.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Len asks and Barry’s whole face is on fire in the next second.

“I- what kind of a question is that?! That’s why I called!” he splutters, but Len only shakes his head.

“Wanting to kiss another guy and wanting to kiss one specific person are not the same thing. Lesson number one, kid: if you’re not attracted to the guy in question, it won’t work. So I’m asking again. Do you want to kiss _me_?”

Barry’s sure he’s going to explode every moment, because the amount of heat radiating from his face can’t be natural. Goosebumps break out over his skin and he shivers a little, but he finds it difficult to look away from Len’s eyes. He doesn’t even want to look away – it feels like Len wants him to consider his answer seriously, so Barry tries to, and just _looks_.

He finds regular features, a little bit of stubble, a beauty mark just to the side of one eye, and full lips that he… yes, okay, if he ever felt like kissing another guy, this moment would be it.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, panic rising in his chest again, along with a vague feeling that he shouldn’t be thinking like this, shouldn’t _want_ this, at all. And then his mind is mercifully stopped short when Len leans just a little bit closer and lets Barry crash into him in an attempt to shut out his loud, chaotic thoughts.

It’s not great, as first kisses go; Barry’s teeth dig painfully into the sensitive inner side of his lips at the impact and their noses bump, a little. Barry lets out a frustrated groan-slash-sigh, and then the hand at the side of his neck moves and makes him tilt his head a bit to the side, and Len steps so close their chests are almost touching. It’s warmth and muscle and _strength_ everywhere, mouths align and tongues meet and Barry suddenly knows all the answers, or maybe loses all the questions, but it doesn’t matter. His fingers curl in the fabric of Len’s shirt and he whines, just a little bit; the embarrassment doesn’t stand a chance against all the other emotions warring for space in Barry’s heart, excitement and relief and sheer unexpected _want_. He never thought it could feel quite like this, big arms on his hips, snaking around his waist, trailing up his back and making him feel lost in the embrace, lost in the best possible way. He’s never been much of a social butterfly, never really dated anyone properly, but Len makes him forget all that – he keeps the kiss simple and yet so, so _good_ that Barry forgets his experiment, forgets to collect data and overanalyze every single moment and catalogue his reactions, and just _feels_ instead.

He’s out of breath by the time Len pulls away, and it feels like he would’ve forgotten about air altogether if Len hadn’t moved first. Barry blinks, dazed, and smiles lazily at Len, whose mouth has turned red and Barry loves the look, loves to be the cause of it. He trails his fingers over Len’s mouth in wonder, and chuckles when he feels Len’s smile against his fingertips, tight and small but _there_.

“Did that help?”

“I don’t know,” Barry chuckles and shrugs, “do it again and I’ll tell you?”

He doesn’t know where the sudden boldness is coming from, but he sure as hell feels it die a horrible death when Len steps away and his hand falls from Barry’s face.

“I have to go.”

A bolt of panic pierces Barry’s chest and he scrambles to make it better, even though he’s not sure how.

“I, uh, I got a hundred and sixty-two bucks and I don’t know how good that is, I mean, how long that can- I-“

“I’m not a hooker, Barry.”

That sure gives Barry a pause in his frustrated, helpless stammering. He stares at Len for a good long while and then manages the only response in the universe suited to answer _that_.

“What?!”

Len shrugs and steps back, as if he honestly worries that Barry will hit him. Which is ridiculous because the guy could probably take Barry in more ways than the most pleasurable one that crosses Barry’s mind and stays like an impossibly permanent sticker at the back of his skull.

“That number… it’s mine. A private number, not a sex line,” Len smirks, shaking his head.

Barry feels hysteria tightening his throat, and his voice comes out a little too shrill when he yelps: “Seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.”

Barry gapes. He’s not-so-quietly freaking out, about to start his nervous pacing again at the thought of having humiliated himself so spectacularly – but Len’s hands on his shoulders are pretty effective at calming him down.

Or, at least, keeping the freak-out to manageable levels.

“Why did you come, then?” Barry asks defiantly: Len could’ve told him right away that he had the wrong number. A part of Barry is glad that he didn’t, that he showed up and said that it was okay to take his time, but a larger part of Barry is wounded pride and bruised ego, and that part makes Barry frown and demand explanations.

Len sighs, and his fingers tighten on Barry’s shoulders, just for a second. “Because when you called, you sounded like me, ten years ago. And I thought you could use someone to talk to. I admit, didn’t plan on kissing you.”

Barry’s not sure if he should laugh or cry. He’s thankful for the help, but… one reason why he tried to pay someone to kiss him was avoiding the potential awkwardness. And now, the situation has gone painfully awkward, even if it’s for a different reason than Barry has predicted. The problem’s not that he didn’t like it… the problem seems to be that he liked it way too much and he can’t hide behind his meager savings to get more of it.

“I… okay, I won’t waste your time, then,” he mumbles and tries to step away – he never expected his experiment to end in heartbreak, but the odd, aching emptiness in his chest can’t really be described any other way. Disappointment, maybe, and craving for something he’s not gonna get: but Barry’s used to not being wanted by the people he falls for, so at least that part is nothing new.

Except Len doesn’t turn and walk away.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and his fingers are on Barry’s jaw again, just a little bit of pressure asking more than forcing Barry to tilt his head up and look at Len. “I know how confusing these things are. So I want you to take a couple of days and think about this, about what you want and what it would mean for your life. You can call me, as a friend, and we’ll see if it goes anywhere else, but I’m not staying tonight. Wouldn’t be right. Do you understand?”

Barry doesn’t, not really, but somewhere deep down he understands that Len’s doing the right thing here, even if it feels wrong and lonely and a lot like rejection at the moment. But having someone to talk to about everything he’s coming to terms with, someone who has been through the same thing, means a lot, and so Barry sniffles and nods and smiles, because all in all, ordering sex from a supposedly shady line could’ve gone a lot worse.

Len kisses him on the forehead before he leaves, and Barry’s stomach is still fluttering when he goes to bed. He saves the ‘shady number’ as ‘Len’ and wonders if, one day, he’ll be telling the story of how he met his boyfriend by confusing him with a prostitute.

If so, he will definitely make sure Joe never hears that particular tale.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr :)](http://pheuthe.tumblr.com/)


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